Security
by P'Bantonox
Summary: When an apparently insane patient attempts to kill House after being treated, House escapes by jumping out of a window. He must now not only figure out what caused the shooting, but how major security breaches seem to be linked to him and his colleagues.
1. Landing Hard

**_Disclaimer- I don't own House, M.D. or any of its characters, and it's highly unlikely I ever will. But it's ok to hope…_**

-Chapter One-

Landing Hard

His leg exploded into pain on impact, and he staggered a few steps before falling to the ground. He felt as if it was on fire, and as if that weren't enough, waves of nausea threatened to purge him of the lunch he had inveigled Foreman into buying. He lay on the ground, dazed, and half conscious. His injured leg hurt more than it did this morning, and someone was screaming. It sounded like they were in extreme agony. Gradually, he realized that the person screaming was him, and stopped. It took more effort than he thought it would. House raised his eyes to the open window one story above him, and cursed himself for jumping. But he still wouldn't have stayed in the patient's room even if he hadn't been fired at by a crazed teenager (who had excellent marksmanship, he noted wryly). His analysis had proved that the patient had a highly infectious disease, and now that a treatment had been administered, there was nothing to do but wait. Too bad the patient hadn't given him a chance to inform him of this. No doubt the boy would look out the window to see if he had survived, he reminded himself, there was no point in waiting to be seen by someone who wanted him dead.

House scanned the area around him, searching for his cane. He found it not too far from where he fell, and half-dragging himself, he managed to make his way to it. Lying next to his cane was his pager, broken from the fall. Eyes tearing with pain, he propped himself up with his cane, into a position he could stand from. Somehow, he managed to stagger around the corner of the building before his legs gave out. Slumped against the west wall of the Princeton-Plainsbourough Teaching Hospital, House briefly closed his eyes. He could see the entrance from here, and someone was bound to spot him soon enough. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved his bottle of Vicodin tablets, and popped it open. There were only two left. He popped his usual dosage into his mouth and swallowed. As an afterthought, he slid the other pill into his shaking hand, and downed that, too. Almost immediately, he felt the pain recede to a point where he no longer felt dizzy. He leaned over, and reached for his right leg, feeling for the breaks he knew he'd find.

He found them almost immediately. He'd definitely broken his ankle, and, by the way he'd fallen, most probably fractured his tibia. No, he decided after his brief inspection, the broken bones meant that he couldn't stay in one spot and wait for someone to discover him. He attempted to stand, but his broken leg buckled under him. House gave a growl of frustration as he sank back down to the ground. A minute passed, and he summoned his strength, trying again to regain his feet. This time, he managed to keep his weight off of his right ankle. Slowly, he shifted his weight to his cane, and shuffled his left foot forwards. The sharp throbbing in his leg didn't flare up as much if he leaned against the wall.

Finally, after what seemed hours, he reached the sliding doors, and stepped through. He found himself in the clinic. Most of the patients turned to stare at him. He didn't even have the energy, nor the wish to justify his sudden appearance. Instead, he turned to an elderly lady holding a pair of crutches.

"Hello. My name is Dr. Gregory House. I need these for a minute." He grabbed the crutches, using them to make his way over to the main desk.

"Dr. House? Are you alright?" The secretary was surprised to see him standing there, pale, shaking, and not during the time he had been scheduled for clinic duty.

"The patient in room D237, Kevin Zalinski, has a loaded gun. I've broken my leg. My pager is lying in pieces under Kevin's window. I'm out of Vicodin. No, I'm _not_ ok. Page Foreman and Cameron for me, tell them to meet me in my office after I get the bones in my leg set. And tell Chase that he gets be the one to sedate Mr. Zalinski."


	2. Late Birds

**_Disclaimer- Ehh… You probably know the routine by now: I don't own House, M.D. Not an inch of his cane, nor a strand of his hair. Maybe I own his tissue box. But who's counting? _**

-Chapter Two-

Late Birds

House leaned back in his office chair, drumming his fingers impatiently on the glass desktop before turning back to his Nintendo DS. Where were they? He'd had Cameron and Foreman paged even before he had gone to get his broken leg and ankle set.

_Dee-dee-dee-dee. Dee-dee-dee-dee._

He automatically slapped his palm to his waist to turn off his pager, but his fingers met only his belt loop. Oh. Well, if it wasn't his, then…

"Don't stand at the door and stare. If you intend to be late, at least try to stay away from the person you're trying to avoid. It gets better results." House looked up from his videogame, and motioned for the two people he'd been waiting for to enter.

Foreman pushed open the door, and stepped into the spacious office. Cameron followed close behind. House motioned for them to sit in the chairs opposite his work area.

As they did so, House noticed that Cameron kept looking away. Had she been crying? By appearances, most likely, though she had tried valiantly to hide it. He mused as to how he should react. By his experience, Allison Cameron was a deeply emotional person. He forced himself to think of her as his colleague, but she always seemed determined to change his mind. He couldn't let that happen. Concern led to emotions, emotions led to attachment, and even the smallest loss in said state could lead to severe inability to think rationally and objectively of a situation. Still, for a moment, he considered asking if she was okay. Instead, he peered over the top of his videogame.

"Dr. Cameron, obviously you shouldn't be here."

The young doctor looked up at him. "Why? What's wrong?"

"Your condition. All symptoms point to Post-Lachrymatory Stress Syndrome." House smiled at the shocked look on her face. Common, though. It's usually known as 'that down feeling you get after a long, hard cry."

"Look, I-"

House sighed impatiently. "Foreman, the tissue box is closer to you. Please."

Foreman had just reached over to grab the box when Chase burst in through the door.

"Late. I already handed out the prizes. Early bird gets the _neurocysticercosis._"

The young Australian gave House an annoyed look.

"Grab a chair. The party isn't over yet. _Sooo…_ What about that patient you went to pay a visit on? A… Mr. Zalinski?"

"Besides the two police stationed outside his room? Well, there's not a lot to say. I know you sent me to sedate him-"

"_Oooh._ _How'd you guess_?"

"-but he really didn't need it. He was sitting on the edge of his bed, yeah, bloodied up and bruised, but doing a Sudoku puzzle like he wasn't even hurt. When I talked to him, he seemed pretty lucid."

"But you did give him the sedatives?"

"Yeah. Ah, and he's been moved to room P187-"

House slammed his fist down on his desk. "_P187?_ That's practically in the psych ward! He's got a chemical imbalance, not a personality problem!"

Foreman chuckled. "Not a personality problem? Sounds like you've already forgiven him. Didn't think you could-"

"What makes you think I forgive him? I don't. Kevin Zalinski is a patient. I, we, get paid to treat patients. Hating them until they die just results in medical malpractice lawsuits. Not that those aren't fun. There's a little thing called doctor-patient relationship: I don't try to murder him, he doesn't try to murder me. He didn't read the rule book. I hate not knowing who I can trust."

For a while, the room was silent. Then, House snapped his videogame shut, his eyes flickering over his colleagues' faces. He reached into his pocket for his bottle of Vicodin, only to find it empty. Wordlessly, he spun his office chair around, and pulled a pair of crutches out from behind his desk. Lifting himself up, he used them to carry himself to the door. There, he turned.

"I'll be back in a minute."

House propelled himself away from his office on his crutches. Thank goodness his office was only a short ways away from the elevator. As he made his way through the halls, he became more and more annoyed. His cast drew far more attention than his cane had. Baby blue. It was a bright, cheerful color, not his taste at all. They didn't have black. For some reason, it would have made the patients uneasy. Huh. And he most definitely preferred baby blue over the alternative: pink.

By some stroke of luck, the elevator arrived just as he reached it. The worst part, though, was the walk to the pharmacy. There, patients and doctors alike watched him out of the corners of their eyes. Like it wasn't obvious.

"Thirty-six Vicodin." There was a new pharmacist today, House noted. A young woman. She must have just arrived. The pharmacist placed a prescription bottle in front of him.

"Thanks." As he turned to leave, he found himself facing his best (and only real) friend.

Wilson greeted him with a cheerful "Hello."

"Oh… Hello." House couldn't return the enthusiasm. He continued to make his way back to his office.

"I thought I'd see you in a better mood today. You fought off a patient! I'm pretty sure that at least half of the doctors here dream of being able to fight their most annoying patients. And unless he's a masochist, I think you contributed to his numerous injuries. Canes hurt."

This elicited a smile from House. "He probably is a masochist, too. Just wanted a buzz. Now I'll have to deal with a lawsuit for assault. Or would that be _medical malpractice?_"

"Hey, people envy you. You disarmed him, then jumped out the window like James Bond. You're a… I believe the term is, '_bona-fide_ celebrity.'"

"_Good faith_? Not hardly!"

"…Heh. Anyways, about the condition of Kevin Zalinski-"

"That guy? What a pain in the leg. I'll check in on him myself, later."

Wilson was shocked. House had made a wisecrack about his own physical status. He never spoke about his right leg. Not since the infarction in his thigh, that several years previous, had lost him partial use of his leg. There had been a possibility, excluding operation, that he could have kept his leg whole. Or lost his life. It was exactly the kind of gamble that House would take over and over again, even after years, perhaps in hope that someday he might find proof that the odds could have been in his favor. Wilson knew that much of House's bitterness stemmed from the fact that he had been cheated of the gamble, by someone he had trusted. Someone he had loved…

"You sobered up fast. And before, you were telling _me_ to cheer up!" House was staring at him with an amused grin. "Isn't it ironic?"

"Oh, shut up."

"No, seriously. Did you leave my front door unlocked or something?"

"No, and I'd appreciate it if you didn't let the whole world know that my wife and I are having troubles."

"What you're actually saying is "I don't want the world to know I'm sleeping over House's." Right?"

"You're an ass."

"Isn't it strange? I seem to be hearing that an awful lot, lately."

"I wonder why."

They continued down the hallways in silence for a while. House looked back at his friend. "So what would you have done if you had a patient pointing a gun at you?"

"I'm not really sure. Probably, get shot. Wait. How'd he get the gun past security measures?"

House mused for a second. "I can think of some pretty fun ideas. But if we're talking about logical stuff, then you should discuss this with everybody." House gestured at the glass door of his office, as they arrived. Once inside, he sat back down in his office chair. "Wilson. There are more chairs in the workspace. So. Can anyone think of a way that Kevin Zalinski could have smuggled a gun into a hospital?" He looked around at his colleagues' blank faces.

"Fruit basket?" Chase volunteered.

"No," Cameron countered, "He didn't get any gifts."

Foreman thought for a minute. "Maybe a family member slipped it under the mattress."

"Can't have," House muttered. "Visitors are always monitored. Wait. I like this one: he swallowed it."

Everyone stared at House.

"No? I guess if it accidentally went off like that, we'd have a very interesting case."

"It's not plausible, House." Wilson had found a chair and was sitting next to Foreman.

"Well, then," House said with a grin, "why don't we just ask the patient?"

**_Author's Note- Sooo… Ok, first of all, for those of you that don't know, didn't guess, or whatever, neurocysticercosis is a tapeworm in the brain. Second, I'm trying to avoid swapping character points of view. It will happen, though. I'll skip a line when I do, and hopefully you can tell when it happens. Anyway, will update faster with reviews._**

_**Bye for now!**_

_**-P'Bantonox**_


	3. Challenge

**_Disclaimer- This paragraph is written at the start of every chapter, though it was only truly needed at the start of Chapter One, to restate that I do not own House, M.D., nor any of its characters/affiliates. Why do I persistently do so? To make it blatantly obvious to any who might challenge my legal rights in creating this fiction. Not that suing this author would bring any monetary gain or satisfaction to the oppressors of fan-dom. But, on with the story…_**

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-Chapter Three-

Challenge

Gregory House propelled himself down the corridor as fast as his crutches could take him. He was hurrying to Kevin Zalinski's room, because he did _not_ want to talk to the boy. The sooner he got it over with, the better. He narrowed his eyes. When he had stated that someone should go talk to the teenager, find out how he'd managed to stash a firearm in a hospital, he had meant _someone else_. But apparently, Foreman had clinic duty, Chase was on his lunch break, and Cameron had to finish some lab work. James Wilson had the best excuse of all: being an oncologist, he had been paged for the treatment of a newly arrived cancer patient.

So, twice in the same day, House was on his way to a patient he had absolutely no wish to see. Of course, now he could justify his reasons for not wanting to go. Earlier in the day, he'd procrastinated about telling the boy about the promises of the most recent treatment he'd prescribed. As soon he'd stepped through the door and made his way over to the patient's bed, Kevin had leapt up, gun in hand. It was almost funny. The one time he'd visited a patient of his own volition…

He glanced down at his watch. Two fifty-four o' clock. Good. Once he'd finished his little chat with the kid, he could finally take a nice long break. He hadn't had food since breakfast, and though he hadn't noticed previously because of the pain from his broken leg, he was _famished._

During the time that House had been musing about his annoyances, a distinct _clip-clip_ of high heels had grown louder, until it intruded on his thoughts. By the time he'd realized whose stride it was, the owner of the shoes had caught up with him.

"You seem to be in a hurry. If it weren't for the fact that you're headed _into_ the patient's wing, I'd say you were running away from something."

"Dr. Cuddy. I'm currently on my way to see a patient whose case means very much to me. Unless you leave now, I might just lose my resolve."

"Your concern is admirable. But it's going to have to wait, unless _Kevin_ is in critical condition."

House stopped and glared at Lisa Cuddy. "What."

"I have an issue-"

"_As usual."_

"-to discuss with you. It's three o' clock. Three doctors are scheduled to be staffing the clinic. Two of them arrive."

"You can hardly expect anyone to stand for four hours in a clinic with a broken leg and ankle. The pain-" House muttered, dry-swallowing a Vicodin, "would be unbearable."

"Mmm… Yes, but I'm not expecting anyone to _stand_. I do, however, know someone who has some defining features: he carries painkillers with him, he uses the convenient _chairs_ in the exam rooms. And, he has nothing pressing to do in the next, oh… Four hours."

"Well, it can't be me then. I-"

"The clinic is overfull. There are people standing in lines that have been there for hours."

"All the more-"

"And most of them have minimal cases."

"So I'm-"

"Free to help."

"_Will you stop interrupting me?_"

"Not unless you're trying to agree. Look, normally I'd let you off today, since you broke your leg. But you and the other two doctors are the only people free to diagnose the forty-three patients in the clinic."

House looked up with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. "And if we do…"

"I don't understand. If you do what?"

A cunning grin spread over his face. "If, by the end of four hours, the clinic is empty, I get a month off of clinic duty."

"Four hours? That's impossible," Cuddy scoffed, "even for _you three."_

The inflection on 'you three' piqued House's interest. "_Us_ three? Us _who?_"

"You'll find out. And just to be fair, I'll say… Start at three-thirty. Now you'll have half an hour to get down there and discuss the rules with your colleagues. But if you lose, you're at the clinic every day, no complaints."

"Mmm… Okay. You know I can't resist a challenge."

House glanced around the crowded clinic lobby as he made his way over to the first exam room. He pushed open the door, and peered inside. Dr. Foreman was inspecting a child's arm, whose mother looked on anxiously.

"It's nothing serious, ma'am. Your son pulled a muscle. Make sure he takes it easy, and doesn't play in any heavy sports for a week or so." He looked up, and saw House standing in the doorway. "Excuse me for a minute."

"Party in Exam Room Three in five minutes. Be there, no excuses."

Then House turned, and closing the door behind him, maneuvered his way past the many people waiting to be diagnosed. Standing before Exam Room Two, he raised his hand to knock, hesitated for a moment, and instead, flung open the door.

James Wilson stood behind a woman in a paper gown, both hands on her back.

House leaned against the doorframe, and rapped one of his crutches against the wall. "If you're giving massages, can I have one too?"

Wilson stiffened at the sound of the familiar voice. "I'm checking for scoliosis. She complained of back pain, and inability to sit straight."

"Right. So she isn't that guy with the cancer."

"What? Oh."

"_Yeah. _Everybody lies."

"Well… I… Kevin's your patient, not mine. I visit Kevin all the time. And he's not even in my field."

"But it could be. His irrational actions could have been caused by a tumor pressing in on his frontal lobe."

"And you expect that this tumor would just have sprung up since the time we checked last?"

"Possible."

"Highly improbable."

"But possible."

Wilson sighed. "I'll run some tests later."

House levered himself back onto his crutches. "Finish up here, then come to Exam Room Three. I need your help.

"Four hours?" an incredulous Eric Foreman asked, "Four? To diagnose a roomful of patients?"

House nodded, a serious look on his face. "That's the idea, obviously. We each get about fourteen-point-three patients. " He gestured to Wilson. "Do you have any objections?"

"No," Wilson replied, "none that you'd listen to."

Foreman had peered through the shades in the clinic-facing window, and was watching the people milling around. "Why are we doing this?"

"Well, Cuddy said it was impossible, even for 'us three'. And I've got a hefty bet running on this. Not just with Dr. Cuddy, either."

Wilson nodded. Another one of the many trials that House put himself through, no doubt… "We'd better get going. It's almost half-past three."

"Okay."

House watched his colleagues leave his exam room, before levering himself back onto his crutches. He felt a raw excitement running through his veins, the same feeling that he got when he administered the correct treatment to a patient just in time to save their life. This was good. He could do this. He made his way over to the main desk in the lobby.

"Three-thirty. Gregory House checks in. Who's my first patient?"

The secretary looked up at House with an amazed look, for the second time in the day. He looked _happy_ about diagnosing patients! The poor deskbound nurse shook her head. She must be overworking herself. "Anna and Jo Tiernan!" she called out. "Exam room three!"

---------------------------------

**_Author's Note- Chapter Three is here! Sorry it's kinda on the short side. The next chapter will be way bigger. Heh. I planned to finish the story yesterday, 3-17-06, but yesterday was my birthday, so it was way too hectic for me to make it to the computer. An advance warning: from here on I'm going into the medical aspects of House, so expect to see some exciting things. However, my medical knowledge is severely limited, so please forgive (and notify me of) any slip-ups I may, and inevitably will, make._**

_**Bye for now!**_

_**-P'Bantonox.**_


	4. Two Hours Through

-Chapter Four-

Two Hours Through

**_Discaimer- Although I don't own House, I do own this story, and that's what matters._**

**_

* * *

_****- Exam Room Three>- **"Let me get this right: her teeth are falling out, and some injuries she'd gotten months ago have started bleeding again?" 

Mrs. Tiernan nodded. "It started a month ago, and just kept getting worse."

Gregory House spun around in his chair until he faced the little girl. He grabbed her hands and glanced at the nails. "Vitamin C deficiency. Also known as scurvy. Not too common in the city- you usually find it in sailors that have been out to sea for months. So either your daughter is a pirate, or you need to feed her fresh fruit, and lots of it. Hey, an apple a day…" He scribbled a list of fruits down on a piece of paper, handing it to the young girl's mother. As they turned to leave, House shouted out for the next patient to enter.

A middle aged man entered the exam room, and immediately removed his shoes. "My athlete's foot just won't go away, even though I bought some medication weeks ago."

"Whoa, whoa, wait a minute." House wrinkled his nose. "Put your shoes back on, and- did you bring that medicine with you? Good. Toss it here." He caught the tube, then glanced at the label. "Let's see… You've been using this stuff? Well, this isn't antifungal cream. It's foot lotion." House flashed an amused grin at the man. "CVS brand callus softener, 'For Cleaner And Healthier Feet.' No wonder it's not doing a thing for you. Here," House handed the man a prescription. "Tolnaftate. It's a _real_ antifungal cream." He tossed the callus softener back, and watched the man leave.

House stood up. He'd diagnosed four patients in the last half hour. While, at this rate, he'd fulfill his quota of at least eleven patients within the time limit of four hours, he wasn't so sure that his colleagues, Dr. Wilson and Dr. Foreman, could. Maybe he was just paranoid, though.

As he scootched his chair across the room, he got an idea. He had brought his cane with him even though he used crutches, mostly because, being a creature of habit, he felt attached to it, after six years of use. And there it sat, by the doorframe. He doubted he would look authoritarian with a pair of crutches. House leaned them against the doorframe, and grasped the head of the cane, curved handle fitting snugly in his palm. He supported his weight on the cane, shuffling his left foot forwards, and lost his balance. He leaned on his right leg to steady himself, and a stab of pain flared in his ankle, despite the splint and cast he wore. He gave an involuntary gasp, but opened the door and stepped into the clinic lobby.

"Hello everybody, sick or otherwise. Some of you may already know me, I'm Dr. House. Due to a problem staffing this clinic, there are only three doctors here to treat all of you, despite your great numbers. So," he called out with a wicked grin, "those who aren't bleeding, in pain, or needing desperate help, come back tomorrow. Come on people. Exit, exit, exit!"

About twelve people filed out through the sliding doors.

"Great." He pointed to a thin young man barely out of his teens. "You're next."

As soon as House entered Exam Room Three, he placed his cane back by the door, then propelled himself back to his chair on his crutches. Once seated, he drew his bottle of Vicodin from his pocket, and slid a pill into his palm. "So, what's the problem?" he asked as the young man.

"Well," came the reply, "I'm a performer in the _Cirque du Soleil_, Andre Orosz. I perform the Lotus Dance."

House held the pill between two of his fingertips before downing it. "Sounds familiar… Lemme guess, joint pain?"

"Yeah. Now I can't even double over backwards."

**

* * *

****- Exam Room Two>- **"I got this weird flaky rash on my back. A couple-a days ago my back an' shoulders hurt, an' they were real sensitive. Now, I didn't think anything of it, an' then my skin started peeling off in sheets. So I came here right away." 

James Wilson frowned. "Have you been outside for extended periods of time?"

"Yeah, I'm a construction worker. Six hours a day, rain or shine."

"Could you please take off your shirt?" The man obliged, and turned around, so that Wilson could see his back.

"It's bad, isn't it…"

Wilson laughed out loud as he realized that the 'rash' was only present in the spots where the man's skin hadn't been covered by his tank-top. "True, you've got a bad case of sunburn. You'll be all right. It heals fast."

"But I wear suntan lotion!"

"Try a higher SPF… Wait, could you tell me if there's any history of skin cancer in your family?"

The man frowned. "Uh-huh, my uncle on my father's side, and my mother had lung cancer."

"Hmm… I'm a little concerned by the severity of your reaction. I've got a friend who's a dermatologist, and I'm going to refer you to him, okay?" Wilson handed a slip of paper to the man. He'd contact Dr. Shouco later, and make sure the patient didn't have a malignant melanoma.

Following the patient to the door, he poked his head out, and blinked. There were considerably less patients than there had been last time he checked. It had been one hour since the beginning of the race to diagnose the entire clinic, and he had diagnosed five patients. If he kept going at this pace, he'd diagnose his goal of eleven patients even before the time limit expired. And a certain friend of his in the Cardiology Department would owe him three hundred dollars.

He beckoned to a nervous looking teenager wearing a garish, floppy-brimmed hat. "Excuse me, Alex Russett?"

The boy nodded, and followed Wilson back into the exam room.

"That's an interesting hat. I'm guessing you're using it to hide the problem. Is that right?"

His face reddening in obvious embarrassment, the boy nodded again. "Uh… I… You won't…"

"Don't worry. Whatever it is, I won't laugh."

Alex slowly reached up and removed the hat. He had shoulder-length, platinum-blonde hair, and it was literally falling out in clumps.

"Oh, that's not too bad." Wilson leaned over, and inspected the boy's head. The hairs themselves were dry, brittle, and splitting at the ends, while the scalp was red and irritated. "Have you had any chemotherapy?"

"No."

"Prescription or nonprescription medicines?"

"No."

"Do you bleach your hair?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Okay, how often?"

"Once, sometimes twice a week."

"Whoa." Wilson raised his eyebrows. "You shouldn't do it that often. The chemicals in the bleach eat away at the hair and strip it of its pigment, damaging its structure. These chemicals also get on your scalp. If you bleach too often, you chemically burn the skin. This kills the roots, which explains why your hair is falling out. If you leave your hair alone, it should recover on its own. But it's going to look a little strange until it grows back. It might be a good idea to shave your head, or, if you want to stand out, get a mohawk."

"So I'm not gonna be bald?"

"Probably not at your age."

"_Sweet._ Thanks!"

Wilson watched the kid leave before preparing for his next patient.

* * *

**- Exam Room One>- **Foreman watched the man and his twelve year-old daughter enter the exam room. The girl sat down on the exam bench. Her father remained standing. "I'm Mr. Zuplos, and this is my daughter, Katie."

"Hi. I'm Dr. Foreman."

"Nice to meet you."

"So what's wrong?"

"Katie's been getting intense headaches, and feeling dizzy."

"Does she have any allergies that you know of?"

"Luckily, not yet."

"Any trauma? Concussions?"

"No."

Foreman turned to Katie. "Is there anything that you might be worried about? Anything that you're not looking forwards to?"

"Uh-huh. In science class, we're having this really big test. If I fail, I'm not gonna pass the term."

"Then your migraine might be stress-induced."

"But it doesn't always happen when…" the girl trailed off, looking up as a flicker in the florescent light caught her eye.

Foreman followed her gaze. "Is that bulb distracting you? I can get it replaced-" Looking back to her, he noticed a glassy look in her eyes. "Katherine? Are you all right?"

Without warning, the girl emitted a strangled gasp, and fell back onto the bench, every muscle in her body taut. Her back arched, and she sucked in a few choking breaths as her rigid body began to quiver.

Foreman glanced up at the father. "She's seizing!" Then he turned towards the open door. "I need some help in here!"

Mr. Zuplos stared at his daughter with a mixture of fear and shock in his eyes. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Help me get her on her side!" Together, they rolled Katherine's convulsing body over.

A few nurses rushed in.

"Get me ten cc's of diazepam. Stat!" Someone handed Foreman a hypodermic needle, and he plunged it into the girl's arm. The liquid traveled into her arm, up through the vein, and into the girl's system, where it began to take quick effect. After a frantic minute, her limbs stopped their violent jerking. Foreman sighed, and turned to the father. This could take a while.

* * *

**_Author's Note- Whoa. Gomen nosai! I haven't updated in so long! (or at least that's how it seems!) I have been doinga lot of research for this story, so it takes a while to finish a chapter. And the clinic patients! The ideas I had for some of them! Some of the cases were just too impossible. But prepare to see a few more in the next chapter before House reaches the four-hour time limit. And the next chapter isn't just going to be clinic duty, either. One more little tidbit-_**

**_Gamecubes, confusion, and junk food!_**

_**Thanks to:** _**sxhlbchiragodemn, your local dealer, Pentium, StormyWolfBowler, _and_** **moo333** **_for the reviews!_**


	5. Deus Ex Machina

_**Disclaimer- Fanfiction is supposed to be a work inspired by the original, not the original work itself. Consequently, if you find this story to be in any way unlike the original series House, you are forewarned that it is my fault, and advised not to go mob the screenwriters of the show, since ignorance is not an excuse.**_

-Chapter Five-

Deus Ex Machina

**- Exam Room Three -**

House shooed a giddy couple out of the room, and glanced at his watch. Three hours and eighteen patients after he had started, and the clinic should finally be beginning to look empty. Picking up his crutches, he opened the exam room door, and stepped into the lobby, so deep in his thoughts, he didn't even look up. After speaking briefly with the secretary, he returned to the room, only to find a patient already there. It was a leather-clad man, with numerous tattoos, and enough body piercings to set off every metal detector in the New Jersey Airport. He was hunched over in the exam chair, sobbing into his hands.

House made his way over to a chair and sat, letting the crutches clatter to the floor beside him. "Hi. I'm Dr. House." There was no reply. "Hello? Are you there? Dr. House paging-" he flipped through the man's file, "- Zeke Rohet."

The man whimpered and looked up at House.

"I assume you're here for a reason."

Zeke pointed to one of his numerous piercings, which happened to be in a very embarrassing place. "It hurts…"

**- Exam Room Two -**

James Wilson handed a young woman a prescription, smiling back at her as she turned at the door and waved. "Good luck with your basketball game, Ms. Angelo. I'm sure you'll be better in time to play." He finished writing, and flipped a folder shut. His next patient shuffled in. He was covered in vivid bruises.

The man gave a weak smile at Wilson's interested look. "No, I know that look. These," he gestured, "are old. My hand is what I'm worried about."

Wilson peered at a deep, angry weal on the man's hand. "It's infected."

"I kind of guessed that. Dumb, huh? I was having a fight with my ex's boyfriend. The one she cheated on me with. I punched him in the mouth, and split my knuckles open-"

"-On his teeth." Wilson finished. "I know. I can see the tooth marks. That needs to get cleaned up. There are quite a few diseases that can be transmitted through a bite, so we're going to need to test you so we can be sure he didn't give you anything worse than an infection."

"Should I have come earlier?"

"Well, it wouldn't have hurt, but no, this looks easily fixed. Will I be seeing _him_ soon?"

"Uh…"

"I, personally, am hoping that you won't hit him again. It can get you in a lot of legal trouble," Wilson said with an inward grin. "not that _experience_ has taught me that."

"You probably won't see him." the man conceded.

**- Exam Room Three -**

House peered through the blinds. "Damn." he muttered to himself. The clinic was as full as it had been when he had started diagnosing patients. Muttering assorted swears, he prepared for his next patient. This contest had suddenly lost its fun.

The first thing House noticed about this patient was that he walked with an odd, shuffled gait. After the man had handed him his file, House stared at him for a full half minute. "What did you do to it?" he finally asked, obviously trying not to smile.

"Do to it?" the man echoed.

House nodded. "I've seen some pretty unusual and stupid things people have done. So, what did you do to it?"

The man hesitated for a minute. "I stuck it in a bottle."

"And now you can't get it out. It's a beer bottle, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

House gave up trying not to show his amusement, and slumped back in his chair, chuckling. "It wasn't your first beer either. Was it a dare? Or just a dumb idea?"

The man looked up, his face a bright shade of red. "You don't need to know that, do you? You think this is funny."

House, still grinning, made a note in the man's file. "So you did this to yourself. And no, I didn't need to know that. I still think it's hilarious, though."

The man stood up, attempting to show an air of injured dignity. Not too surprisingly, he failed.

"Don't go," House called out to the man. "I'll treat you."

"With respect?" the man replied.

"That's pushing it."

**- Exam Room Two -**

Wilson was handing a prescription to a patient when his pager went off. He glanced down at the message, then strode off into the clinic. Pausing by the desk to drop off some papers, he checked his watch, and then walked over to Exam Room Three. He knocked, and stepped back.

House opened the door. "Hey, Jimmy!" he pointed at the patient sitting on the exam bench behind him. "It's another bottle job!"

"Oh, I believe it. But as interesting as that is, I came here to tell you something. Foreman's back."

"Back from where?"

"He had a patient who went into a grand mal seizure. Seemed fascinated by the lights."

"Photosensitive epilepsy. Did she have defined T-C stages?"

"Yeah. Turns out she was in the tonic state. Went clonic when he asked her what was wrong."

"Wait a minute… Foreman left, and nobody told me?"

"I paged you. Twice."

"No doubt I would have responded, if I actually _had_ my pager."

"I wouldn't have tried to page you, if you had actually told me you lost it."

"I didn't lose it. It broke."

"Okay, how'd you break it?"

House sighed. "It jumped out the window with me."

Wilson nodded, his face a perfect mask of mock solemn-ness. "Oh, I get it. When you jumped out the window, you broke your leg. The pager doesn't have any legs, so when it jumped, it just broke."

"No. It slipped off my belt when I fell. But I like your version better." He wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. "It's so sad. But we have no time to mourn it. We must valiantly go on, diagnosing patients."

Wilson grinned. "Well, you know," he said, motioning towards the poor man in the clinic, "you can treat that guy first."

"Why treat him, when I can refer him? I believe he falls under Dr. Miko's profession."

"That works too. Do you refer everyone who comes in?"

"Despite popular opinion, no. He'll be the third." House turned and handed the patient a written note. As the man left the room, House reached into his pocket, and pulled out his bottle of Vicodin.

"_Greg._" Wilson's voice was serious, the levity gone from his voice. "_Stop._"

House paused. "What?"

"When was the last time you took one?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Yes it does. At three o' clock, I saw you at the pharmacy. You received thirty-six Vicodin. That bottle doesn't have thirty-six in it anymore." In one swift motion, Wilson swiped the prescription bottle from House's hand, and spilled its contents on the counter in the exam room.

"Hey!"

Wilson ignored House's protests, and quickly counted them out. "Thirty-three. In four hours, you've had three Vicodin, starting on your fourth. They should be taken _four hours apart_. You need to wait."

House turned on him, wincing, as the sudden movement sent a shot of pain up his leg. "I just need to get through today. Once I get home, I'll feel a lot better."

"And what? You'll keep taking the pills?"

"When I need to."

"It's seven-twenty. I want you to stop yourself from taking a Vicodin until ten-thirty."

"I don't care. My leg hurts-"

"You should care! You're taking way too much."

"I broke my damn leg! I have a right to take the pills!"

_"You don't have the right to kill yourself!"_

House fell silent.

"You're the nephrologist. You know what it'll do to your kidneys if you overdose."

"Dammit, Jimmy. You and your logic. While you've been standing there yelling at me, you've wasted almost all of the time we have left. Fifteen minutes isn't enough time to diagnose more than two patients."

The desk nurse tapped Wilson on the shoulder. "Excuse me." She brushed by him, and held out a folder. "Dr. House, your next patient is outside. You need to go out and see him."

------------------------

**- Exam Room Three -**

"I'm not going outside. Someone brought the file in. I'll talk to them, but I won't go outside." House waved the nurse off, and sank down in the exam chair. For a moment, a look of exhaustion and pain showed on his face, but it was immediately replaced by the look of bored annoyance he usually wore. He looked up at Wilson. "So…" he sighed, "If I hold off on the pills, will you make dinner tonight?"

Wilson allowed a smile to slip back onto his face, erasing the angry look that was so unlike him. "Well, I guess so. What do you want?"

"Chicken parmesan. No… Lasagna. We do have the makings for lasagna, right? You'd know. I don't go grocery shopping."

"Sounds okay. You really should learn how to shop, you know."

A motion at the door caught House's eye. A woman was standing by the doorway, obviously waiting for him to get up and go talk to her.

"Excuse me." Wilson got up, and walked out into the lobby.

House motioned for the woman to come into the room. "So who won't come in, and why?" The woman leaned over, and murmured something in his ear. He looked slightly shocked, and hoisted himself up onto his crutches, propelling himself out into the clinic lobby. He maneuvered his way through the crowd of patients, and flagged down a nurse. "Bring me a bottle of saline, and some noseplugs. No, better yet," he showed her the file, "escort this patient to Exam Room… Two."

Once the nurse had departed, House made his way through the crowded waiting area to Wilson's exam room.

Wilson looked up from his patient, and sending her out, turned to House. "What are you doing here? I thought you had resigned yourself to healing the masses."

"No, the _oncologist_ gets to heal the _masses_. I heal patients. I need your room."

"For a patient?"

"That's the most logical explanation for my asking, isn't it?"

"Well, yes, but… Why? Is the patient unable to fit in just one room?"

"Do I _have_ to tell you why?" House maneuvred his way over to a wheeled swivel chair, and sat down, his crutches slipping from his fingertips and hitting the floor. "Oh, and I need saline."

"Top cabinet, left side."

"Can you get it? It's a little hard for me to walk right now."

Wilson rolled his eyes, but complied, handing the container of fluid to him.

"Thanks." House said, pushing against the wall with his left foot and gliding across the room. He stopped at the medicine cabinets, grabbed the counter edge, and pulled himself upright, reaching for something inside the cabinet. He drew his closed fist back, and turned away from Wilson.

"Hey… Do you smell something?"

"No." House chuckled, "Don't smell a thing."

"How can you not smell that?" He stepped out into the lobby, and glanced around, his eyes open wide with shock. The clinic was half empty, with many patients filtering out through the sliding doors. In the center of the clinic, was a man in a wheelchair, who, Wilson saw, was weeping profusely with the agony of his own odor.

"Got sprayed by a skunk." House called out to the oncologist.

Wilson stared at the now-empty clinic, then turned back to House. "You'd do anything to win this contest. I bet you hired that guy."

-----------------------------------

Cuddy strode into the clinic, her triumphant smile fading as she saw Wilson, House, and Foreman standing in the middle of the clinic with not a patient to be seen. "I can't believe you managed to do this. I'm actually impressed." She glanced around the clinic. "Where is the staff? And _what_ is that smell?"

"Dr. Cuddy," House called out, "surprise. Do we get our respective prizes now?"

She smiled weakly. "It's do-able." Foreman and Wilson looked shocked, as she handed each of them a hundred dollars, and turned to House. "They get their money, you get your month off of clinic duty. And someone, get maintenance down here. _Stat._" Cuddy turned, and retuned to her office, with as much dignity as her empty wallet would allow her.

Wilson watched her go. "We accomplished the impossible. You'd think she'd be more cheerful."

"Well, this ruins my evening," House remarked bitingly. "Well Aenas got her stable clean. But it still stinks. Hercules is leaving now."

Foreman shook his head. "Dr. Cuddy isn't the only one who thought we couldn't do this. _I_ didn't think we could do it."

House grabbed his crutches and left the clinic. "I'm going home. Olympus calls."

Wilson turned to Foreman. "_Deus ex machina_."

-------------------

_**Author's Note- Well. Another chapter up. I do have to apologize, though. Things didn't progress as far as I thought, so obviously, no 'Gamecube, junk food and confusion' in this chapter. Sorry to say, it's gonna be about three chapters before that comes up. Besides that, though, 'Aenas and the Aegean stables' is a classical reference to the Labors of Hercules. Basically, it's about a mile-long stable, and a guy who has to clean it up in a day. Pretty fun. Also, during this chapter, I found myself writing yet another fiction. So now I've got two to update. Yay. Well, I can promise that in the next chapter, I'll explain the 'Kevin incident' a little more fully.**_


	6. Lies

**_Disclaimer- It's not as if writing a disclaimer will get me out of clinic duty, will it? No, didn't think so. Well, then, as a special favor to you…_**

* * *

-Chapter Six-

Lie

House sat up and took another slice of pizza. "Why'd you order fast food tonight? I thought you were going to make lasagna."

"It's nine o'clock. It's too late for lasagna. I'll make it tomorrow, okay?" Wilson took a sip of beer, and glanced over at the television. "Are you watching that?"

"No. But don't change it."

Wilson looked wistfully at the television remote. "So. You can probably guess what I'm going to ask you, but I'm going to ask anyways."

"What? If Cuddy is sleeping over? No."

"That wasn't it. And you only refer to her in a misogynistic fashion when you're trying to steer the conversation away from something."

"Hey!" House looked peeved.

"What happened with Kevin?"

House put his plate down on the arm of his recliner. "I never got to go back. Cuddy dragged me away to clinic duty."

"The first time. When he shot at you."

"Not a lot to say, really-"

_"Oh, come off it, House._ Something happened in there."

"Something _did_ happen. He shot at me."

"Tell me what went on in there."

"Fine. I opened the door, walked to the other side of his bed, said hello. He didn't answer, so I pulled the sheets off of him. Then I saw he had a gun, so I stepped back. I lost my balance, and leaned against the window. Kevin missed me, and shot the window instead. The glass shattered, and I fell through. There. That's all that happened." House looked down, his heart pounding loudly in his ears. It wasn't all that had happened. In fact, it was a complete lie. He had_ brought his cane down sharply on the foot of the bed. "The door's locked. I'm not leaving until you tell me where you were. Understand? I don't care who you say you were with. I don't care what I have to do to make you tell me--"_ House banished the memory from his mind, and forced himself to meet Wilson's eyes. "That's… all."

For a moment, Wilson's look bordered on skeptical, and then he relaxed. "Sorry. I was just wondering. I- well, never mind." He took a long sip of beer, and leaned back. "Long day, huh?"

House's eyes flickered to the cast on his right leg, then to Wilson, finally resting his gaze on the bottle in his hand. "Yeah. Long day. I'm going to bed now. You get to put the stuff away today."

"…Again." Wilson muttered under his breath, although he felt no real resentment. "Well, see you in the morning."

House lifted himself out of his chair, and propelled himself across the room on his crutches, pausing at the bedroom door to look over his shoulder. " Don't drool on the sofa again. 'Night." He stepped into the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

He doubted that he would get to sleep, though.

* * *

_**Author's note- I'm back! Yeah, it's a really short chapter. But right now I'm spending most of my writing time on Will Be. (See, it has something to do with my muse, and some dangerous-looking weapons.) But enough about that. I will still update here, only less often. Next chapter will be WAY bigger. (This really was only a teaser to make sure you, reader, aren't leaving me. Aren't I evil?) **_

_**Thanks to all those who reviewed!**_

_**See you soon,**_

_**P'Bantonox**_


	7. Untold

-1**_Disclaimer- Well. This is interesting. For those of you who have been reading this story since I first published it and watching the show, isn't it weird? I started this story in the middle of the series. And the season finale of House is that House gets shot. Well, I don't own House, but I'm pretty sure I own Kevin Zalinski. Although their use of Sherlock Holmes's nemesis, Jack (James) Moriarty…_**

-Chapter Seven-

Untold

House lay in his bed, not sleeping, as would be expected, but staring at the ceiling. The cast on his right leg didn't sit right in his bed, and it was twisting his leg to the right, putting stress on the damaged tissue. He seriously considered opening his bottle of Vicodin, but so soon after drinking alcohol, there might be… unwanted effects.

He raised an arm above his head, almost as if conducting an unheard orchestra, then let it fall. He didn't want to go to work tomorrow. No…that wasn't it… He didn't want to see Kevin Zalinski again. Not after today.

He closed his eyes. Even at this moment, he remembered the events leading up to when the boy tried to shoot him, as clear as if it was still happening. The orderlies joking around at the other end of the hall, laughing about some patient's private life. The man who had almost tripped him on the way over to room D237 and didn't apologize…

_-----_

_House limped down the near-deserted hallway, a look of grim determination on his face. The treatment ought to be working. In fact, it probably was. But the diagnosis… If the diagnosis was correct (it was the best one so far), it meant that the boy had a highly infectious disease. He would have exposed hundreds of people to it._

_The problem was, that Kevin Zalinski said he hadn't._

_House grabbed the handle of the door, expecting it to slide smoothly open. It didn't. He tried again, rattling the door. A small metallic clink sounded from somewhere at his feet. He knelt carefully down on the cold hallway floor, making his way over to the edge of the door. There. A coin had been wedged crudely into the sliding door track, jamming it shut from the inside. House mused for a moment, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a paperclip. He bent it into a hook, and slid it under the door, knocking the coin from its groove. He then rose to his feet, and tried the door again. It opened._

_Sliding it shut behind him, he replaced the coin back where it had lay, effectively locking the door behind him. It would be better if he were… undisturbed._

_He looked around the room. The boy was huddled under the covers in the hospital bed, only a few strands of light brown hair peeking out from under the blanket_

_"Kevin," he called out. The boy flinched, the motion muffled by the thick layers of blankets. "I'm Dr. House. You have diphtherial pharyngitis. You were supposed to have had a vaccine, but, well, it's too late for that now. But still, it's going to give you and me a lot of trouble. Diphtheria is highly infectious to those who haven't gotten the vaccine. You're a walking carrier to this disease, and probably infected quite a few people."_

_The boy shifted under the covers, but said nothing. _

_"I've asked your aunt if you went anyplace where you would have made contact with possible hosts, but she said you had only gone out on a hike twice in the entire week.. But you didn't go out on a hike, did you? You went to the mall. When you were admitted to this hospital, you were wearing new jeans. With a tag still on them. I need hear it directly from you: did you leave the house to go somewhere public?"_

_Kevin was trembling, now, and House moved closer, leaning over the bed. "Answer me. Did you leave?"_

_From beneath the covers, the boy mumbled something that sounded vaguely like "can't tell you."_

_"Of course you have to tell me," House snapped. "This is reportable. It's a public health issue. If someone find out and reports it before I do, you're not going to be the only person in trouble. Come on, come on."_

_The boy said nothing. House felt his frustration building up. Why wouldn't the damn kid tell him? If Cuddy learned about this…_

_House brought his cane down sharply on the foot of the bed. "The door's locked. I'm not leaving until you tell me where you were. Understand? I don't care who you say you were with. I don't care what I have to do to make you tell me. I'll stay here as long as I need to." He walked over to the other side of the hospital bed and hooked the end of his cane underneath the blanket, whipping it off of the boy._

_Kevin was curled up, cradling something close to himself, a look of fear on his face. A look of being cornered. The object was metallic, black._

_"What is tha-" House stepped back, as the realization of what the object was hit him. It was a gun._

_The boy realizing that House was staring, followed his glance to the gun. He attempted to turn away, and entangled himself in the IV and various other wires. He raised the gun. _

_It went off with a deafening bang. The tall glass window behind House shattered. He stumbled backwards, then raised his cane, bringing it down on the boy's wrist. He thought it would make Kevin let go, but instead, he drew away, falling backwards, out of the hospital bed. _

_Kevin rose to his feet, gun still in hand. He glanced over at House, then raised the gun again, more focused on the gun than on the man standing before him._

_House looked over at the gun, then to the window. The boy was still holding the gun. House turned to the window, gauging the distance mentally from where he stood to the awning over the window on the story below him. He spoke to the boy, trying to distract him long enough to think of a way out that didn't involve falling. "How did you get that into the hospita-"_

_BANG._

_The gun went off, and without thinking, House jumped. _

_It was only as he fell that he realized that in his hurry, he had jumped too far. His trajectory was wrong. _

_The ground rushed up to meet him._

_---_

House winced, the memory of the pain still fresh in his mind. What the hell had he done to make a seventeen year-old kid pull a gun on him? He closed his eyes, but his mind still kept replaying the day's events. The more he tried to relax, the more stressed he became.

House growled in exasperation, and leaned over, lifting the bottle of Vicodin off of the bedside table. He popped the lid off, sliding a solitary pill into the palm of his right hand before putting the container back. He closed his hand around the pill, feeling it dig into the meat of his hand, then raised it to his mouth. Forget side effects. He needed it.

He let it fall from his fingers and into his mouth, and swallowed, the familiar bitter, chalky taste left in his mouth.

He closed his eyes again, and this time, only sleep came.

------

_**Heheh. I updated a longer chapter, as promised. Still not up to my usual three pages, but as I might have mentioned before, most of my energy is going into writing Will Be. Thanks to all who reviewed. Expect a new chapter of Will Be soon, too. **_

_**Bye!**_

_**P'Bantonox**_


	8. Surreality

_**Disclaimer- House owns me, not the other way around. Now, prepare yourself...**_

-Chapter Eight-

Surreality

* * *

House watched Wilson decrease the amount of morphine that the patient was on. "So you managed to remove the tumor?"

Wilson turned to House, a strange look in his eyes. "No. It grew. He's not going to live. His parents are flying in from Maine to say goodbye. I think they won't get here in time though."

House looked back to the patient, picking up the file. "Rednevah, Tom. Lymphoma¼ This wasn't a terminal case. What happened?"

Wilson snatched the file from House's hand, a cold grin playing over his lips. "Don't know. Yet." An anguished moan came from behind him, growing quickly into a scream.

"He's awake!" House muttered. "We need to up his morphine, not turn it down!"

Wilson shook his head. "No. You're wrong, House."

"Dammit, Wilson, he's in _pain! _Unless you have a reason for letting him suffer-"

"Oh, I have a reason. I need him to tell me something."

"You didn't have to turn his morphine _off!_ He'll die from the pain before he even gets the chance to speak! Put him back on!"

_"No."_

"What the hell is _wrong_ with you? You're practically torturing this man. This is nothing like you."

"Actually, you're right. This is more like something you would do."

"This isn't the time to be poking fun at me. His stats are climbing steadily. Heart rate is climbing past one-thirty, BP is one-ninety-two over one-seventeen. He's in danger. If you won't put him back on, I will."

"_No you won't_." Wilson grabbed a syringe and strode over to where House stood.

"Sedatives?" House frowned. "Not going to help him. At least not _that_ one. It's the wrong kind."

Wilson turned to House. "For you, if you don't get out of my way. It'll wear off in half an hour."

House raised his eyebrows. "Are you stoned, hungover, or joking?" A feeling of unease began to appear in the pit of his stomach.

Wilson took another step forwards.

"Jimmy, just¼ put that away." He backed away until he hit the wall. "You've got to be kidding me. Are you¼just¼ _Wilson!" _House shouted as his friend brought the needle down in an arc. He stepped aside at the last moment, and brought his cane up, holding it like a club. _"What the hell?"_

"I warned you." In his eyes were no sign of the glazed look that temporary psychosis often brought. Only determination.

An erratic beeping sounded over the agonized screams of the patient, and House looked over. "He's going into v-fib. Get a crash cart and call a code, or you'll never get to hear whatever it was that you wanted him to say."

Wilson stood, not budging. "What. You going to hit me with your cane to get me out of the way?"

He looked over at Wilson, then back to the patient. He hesitated, for a moment, then swung his cane at the hand holding the syringe. Wilson stepped out of the way, and House limped hurriedly past him, reaching for the defibrillator. He felt a piercing pain in his shoulder, and turned, to see Wilson pull his hand back with the empty container. "What--" House could feel the effects of the drug racing through his system already, and he reached for the machine anyways, grasping the twin paddles. His unsteady legs gave out , and he dropped to the floor, Wilson standing over him.

The last thing that registered with him as the world faded out was the long, sustained tone signifying cardiac arrest. And the self-satisfied grin on Wilson's face—

-House woke, covered in cold sweat and heart pounding, to find himself sliding out of bed, his alarm clock going off. He clawed frantically at the sheets, but only succeeded in bringing half the bed down with him. _Oh shit. This is going to hurt. _

He dropped onto the floor, crushing his right leg beneath him. Immediately, a searing pain shot up his leg, and he barked out a yell of pain, instantly forcing himself to stifle it. The last thing he needed was _sympathetic Wilson_ coming in here and asking if he was all right. Stupid question.

Teeth still gritted with the pain, he reached up to the table, now directly above his head, and grabbed the bottle of Vicodin. He slid one into his palm, and swallowed it, sinking back to the floor. It was several minutes before he trusted himself to stand up.

House grabbed crutches, cane, and bag, slipping his keys into his pocket. _Another day at work. Great. At least no more clinic duty. _

He slammed the car door shut, and slung his bag over his shoulder, visibly wincing as it bumped up against the damaged tissue in his right thigh. He re-adjusted his bag, and entered the hospital.

Once inside, he clipped his pager to his belt, and made for the elevator. To his horror, the doors were open but there was no elevator in sight. _Where the elevator should be, there's a few men gathered by tan empty shaft, passing around tools, and acting important. _

House made his way over to them, and stopped. "Where's the elevator?"

The most important-looking man of the group waved him away without looking up. "We're conducting maintenance on Lobby, Guest, and C-hall elevators." he muttered, annoyed, "You'll have to take the stairs."

House frowned. "I can't take the stairs."

"You'll have to."

House waved the end of one of his crutches in the man's face, forcing him to look up. "Do I _look_" he growled, enunciating every word, "like someone who can use the stairs? You said that the Guest and C-hall are down. Which aren't?"

The man instantly adopted a softer, condescending tone. "All other wings. The closest is-"

"-A. Yeah, I know. Nice to know you learned your alphabet, too." He made a face, and turned away. _A-hall. Two hundred feet from here. I'm tired, my leg hurts, and I'm late._

He propelled himself down the hallway, until he reached the elevator. Once he was inside, he pulled his bottle of Vicodin from his pocket, staring at it. Common sense told him to forget it. How long had it been since his last? An hour? His leg _hurt_ as if he hadn't taken his pill yet. And yet he had.

He shook his head. Just one. Maybe the pain would be gone by the end of the four-hour hiatus. He wouldn't take another out of place after this. It was just because of the added weight of the cast, pulling on the damaged muscles in his thigh. After his leg healed, the pain would disappear, and he would have no need for the extra dosage. Just for now he'd have an extra. Just one.

House popped the bottle open, and slid a Vicodin into his palm, dropping the container back into his pocket. He leaned back against the wall, and closed his eyes, slipping the small pill into his mouth. His breath slowly escaped from his lips as the bitter taste filled his mouth, then ,almost reluctantly, he tilted his head back, and swallowed.

He stood, motionless, crutches dangling from the fingertips of his left hand. A _ping_ sounded, and the elevator doors slid open, but he gave no sign that he noticed.

"Dr. House."

He knew that voice that, with only the utterance of his name, had expressed displeasure, exasperation, and the unspoken command to pay attention, _or else_.

"Is this why you're late this morning? Fell asleep in the elevator? Because I'm pretty sure that the time you'd normally be spending in the clinic would suffice as a naptime."

House slowly opened his eyes, his serenity instantly evaporating into annoyance. "I was thinking about whether I should stop by your office on the way here or not. But just thinking about you makes me tired."

Cuddy gave an unamused smile.

"You'd better hope you have enough energy to _get where you're supposed to be._"

"Actually, I was just plain late. Bet Dr. Wilson's even later than me. He can't hold his alcohol at all."

"Actually, he came in a full forty-five minutes before you."

House shook his head and turned away, moving quickly down the hallway on his crutches. Cuddy didn't follow. The clicking of her heels faded into the distance, and he soon found himself in front of his office.

Inside the connected workroom were Foreman, Chase, and Cameron, having a heated argument. House slipped silently through the door, and stood motionless.

"-to kill him! I'd be angry, too, if it were me. But I don't think he'd go that far." It was Chase, his Australian lilt not hiding the doubt in his voice.

"Come on. You've seen him angry. He doesn't just get mad, he gets revenge." Foreman.

"I agree with Chase. House is a rational person." _Cameron. Figures, but…_

"Rational? He's stoned on painkillers half of the time, the other half, he's in too much to think at all. How can he be rational?"

House slowly shifted so that he could see through the glass wall without being seen by his employees. Foreman was standing by the whiteboard, Chase was reclined in a chair, and Cameron was sitting on the glass tabletop, looking angrily at Foreman.

"He's in pain." Cameron retorted. "Pain causes inability to think. His medication gets rid of the pain."

"He's addicted."

"Addiction only means that his body is dependant on a chemical reaction that the drug causes-"

"-Dependence is a physical symptom. The drug chemically changes the way that the brain works. You saw him in detox. He was mentally debilitated by the absence of his Vicodin. If he were to have gone longer without it, things would have gotten worse. He might not have been able to make it. Look what he did to rid himself of pain! We all know he broke his own fingers. If that's not irrational thinking…"

"He needs the pills. He's desperate to escape the pain."

"Exactly. A desperate person will do anything to escape pain. Which brings me back to my original statement."

House slumped down against the wall, the rest of the conversation unheard. He let his head drop. What if… No. He would not allow himself to think that way. He was addicted. But it didn't affect his life. He wouldn't let it.

He stood up, and went back to the office door, opening and closing it noisily, acting as if he had just arrived. He dropped his bag by the desk, and opened the door to the workspace.

"Good morning, people." He looked at each of them in turn, his face as blank and unconcerned as he could keep it. All three of them were staring up at him. There was an awkward silence.

"Good morning… Dr. House." Cameron ventured. "You came in late."

House turned his head a little. "That was phrased as a question. Yes. I was late. I overslept. _Big_ party last night, lots of hookers. Wilson was able to join me for the first time. So. Any news about our little.. sharpshooter delinquent?" The pause in his voice was barely audible. Nobody noticed.

Cameron nodded, and began to speak, but Chase cut her off. "Yes. There's still no sign of the grey coating on the tonsils or throat, and the tests came negative. Kevin Zalinski doesn't have diphtheria."

**_Whoa. It's been a while. And you know why? Because I've been writing and rewriting the next chapter of Will Be, and I just can't seem to get it right. So I gave up for the time being, and decided to update here. Three and a quarter pages. Told ya I'd be back to my normal soon! So, since you waited so patiently, I figure I'll give you some teasers so you won't forget me. Next chapters…_**

_**Security- Kevin Zalinski has a shocking secret that House can't ignore. Or he'll be killing the kid…**_

_**Will Be- Wilson wakes, but he's not feeling too good. In fact, he's seriously hurt. The horizon doesn't look promising either, as storm clouds the color of lead fill the skies.**_

_**Thanks to all who reviewed. (I don't have the time to list you all right now, but next update I will!)**_

_**P'Bantonox**_


	9. Symptoms

**_Disclaimer- It's common knowledge that fan fiction is by fans, for fans. Chances are that those who read this story will have no affiliation with 'Bad Hat Harry,' or in general, the companies who own and produce House. But on the odd chance that someone who does have a hand in the creation of the show reads this, I do not imply that I own House, although I do own Kevin Zalinski. But he is for sale… Email me if you want to adopt him! (Note: he is a fictional character. Do not put your hands in the cage, or feed the Kevin.)_**

* * *

-Chapter Nine-

Symptoms

Cameron nodded, and began to speak, but Chase cut her off. "Yes. There's still no sign of the gray coating on the tonsils or throat, and the tests came back negative. Kevin Zalinski doesn't have diphtheria."

House drummed his fingertips on the handle of one of his crutches. "Okay. Back to square one." He made his way over to the whiteboard, and wiped it clean. "Let's start from the beginning. Symptoms."

"Fever, congestion, and sore throat." Chase sat up in his chair, and began to pay rapt attention.

House scribbled them onto the board and nodded to Foreman. "Can the neurologist tell me what I want to hear?"

He rolled his eyes. "Confusion, fatigue, and…"

"Yes?"

"Insanity."

"Bingo. Let's list that as a symptom. We've also got low blood pressure, and difficulty breathing. So what's his problem?"

Foreman raised his eyebrows at the wording of the question, but answered. "Excluding whatever's causing his actions, it could be any upper respiratory disease--"

"Feel free to leave out any symptoms that don't fit your diagnosis. They really don't fit, anyways."

"Maybe he's just an insane person who's sick?" Chase added, "It happens."

"--Or he could have a tumor in his brain, in the temporal lobe." Foreman finished.

"Ah-_HA!_" House shouted out, startling everyone in the room, and causing them (and several people passing by in the hallway) to stare at him. "I _told_ Wilson"

Chase frowned. "Could just be an allergic reaction."

"No," Cameron countered, "Wouldn't account for the psychosis. What about a pneumococcal or streptococcal infection?"

House wrote them on the board. "Strep and pneumonia. Trust you to come up with the easiest to diagnose and cure--" The beeping of pagers cut him off, and he reached to his belt for one that wasn't there. "Will someone tell me what it says?"

Cameron looked up at House. "It's a code blue. Kevin Zalinski's in respiratory arrest.

* * *

House watched the other doctors leave, and followed on his crutches at his own pace. By the time he reached the room, they were already crowded around the hospital bed. 

Foreman noticed House entering the room, and turned. "His lungs aren't bringing in enough oxygen to feed his brain. If we don't get his SATs up, and fast…"

"…There could be permanent damage to the brain." House finished.

"And that's not the worst part. He was unmonitored."

_"What?"_

"Nobody was there to respond to his condition. The hall was empty. No nurses, no doctors, _no security._ We don't know how long he was like this-"

"-What the _hell_ were they _doing_? How is it even _possible_ that there would be no staff in 'P' hall?" The double beep of the monitors caught his attention, and he glanced over to where Chase stood.

"O² SATs returning to normal."

House wheeled around and nodded to Cameron. "Ten milligrams of Diazepam."

"But nothing's wrong-"

"He's been without oxygen for a length of time. Not long enough for the body to be permanently damaged, but the brain is pretty picky about getting a steady supply. There's a good chance of neurological damage, so a seizure makes sense."

As if in answer, Kevin Zalinski's left arm twitched, lay still for a moment, then his entire body began to tremor.

House gestured towards the boy, his face mocking, but his eyes serious. "Dr. Cameron. Your medical opinion on whether to administer an anticonvulsant?"

Without meeting his gaze, Cameron turned back to where Foreman and Chase had already propped the boy on his side. Once she had injected Kevin with the dose, she turned her attention to the patient himself.

House was deep in thought, his hands clenched so tightly on the handles of the crutches that his fingernails were digging into the foam. He closed his eyes, only vaguely aware of the beeping monitor and sounds of a struggle. _History, plus onset, plus symptoms… _He needed another symptom. Something distinctive, to make apparent the pattern of progression that the disease took…

Kevin Zalinski had not been admitted for the flu-like symptoms he had, according to the history, been exhibiting weeks previous to his admittance to PPTH, but for a long gash on his left leg which had been bleeding profusely. He had been covered with various scrapes and contusions, some which looked new, and others which had long since healed. Both he and his foster parents claimed that he got them from dirt-bike accidents, but they were lacerations, not abrasions. X-rays showed that he had broken several bones in the past: an arm, a rib, and several fingers. The boy's physical condition told more about him than the family history that Cameron had taken. No vaccinations, no information on the mother or father…

_If only he had another symptom. Something's missing…_ "Missing!" House muttered aloud. "Huh." He leaned his crutches against the wall, and ignoring the overwhelming wave of pain that resulted from doing so, limped over to the side of the bed. The Vicodin would get rid of it, anyways.

"Dr. House?" Cameron spoke, her tone inferring that she was asking what he was doing.

He paid no attention, and reached into his pocket for his ever-present bottle of pills. He downed two, and made his way to the head of the bed. Then, slowly, deliberately, he reached out, and grasped Kevin by the throat, his fingers placed beneath the boy's jaw.

_"House!" _Foreman dashed over, grabbed House's shoulders and spun him around. _"What the hell?"_

House stared at him, his shocked and confused gaze meeting Foreman's fearful and angry one. "What the hell do you mean, 'what the hell?' I'm checking his lymph nodes! Unless you have a problem with that, I suggest you let go of my shoulders."

Foreman let go of House, his features melting into embarrassment and confusion. "I thought… well, I…you… you shouldn't touch him… He might… be contagious."

House stared at Foreman for a full minute, then looked back to the boy. "His lymph nodes aren't swollen any more. Check his temperature, t-cells, and white count. I'll be in my office."

* * *

_**Buahahaha! Heh. Sorry. I feel evil today. I took a long time, (again!) to update. Gomen nosai! Well, new chapter of Will Be coming soon. See ya!**_

_**P'Bantonox**_


	10. Rationality is Fungible

**_Disclaimer: I don't own House, and this is where the edges may blur.Things are gonna get smoother from here. _**

* * *

-Chapter Five-

Rationality is Fungible

"I thought House was trying to _kill_ the kid! I said before that I thought he might."

Chase frowned at Foreman. "Well, you could at least try to make it less obvious. He was checking the lymph nodes. You _definitely_ got his attention with the way you reacted."

Foreman sped up his pace, walking down the hallway a few steps faster than the other two. "I reacted to what I thought was happening, okay?" He turned a corner, and stopped, as Cameron stepped in front of him.

"I told you that House wouldn't do something like that. He cures patients. He wouldn't intentionally hurt someone simply because they attacked him during a fit of psychosis. It's illogical to even try and twist it to your 'House is insane' theory. He's sane."

Both Chase and Foreman scoffed, and Chase looked directly at her. "Sane? Well, I suppose he isn't _mad_… He's not always rational, but then rationality depends on your point of view. Now could you please move?"

Cameron did so, and they continued their way to House's office in silence. The room was in sight when Foreman spoke again. "Something's up. Maybe it's the pills, maybe it's the kid, but House isn't acting normal, even for him."

"Could it possibly be,"said Chase, "that he's in pain?"

* * *

House saw the other doctors approaching, and stood, wobbling uncertainly without the aid of his crutches. He swore softly, then picked them up off of the ground, using them to propel himself across the room and into the hallway. He would take the elevator down to the clinic, where Wilson was, and maybe check in on Kevin on the way back, if he was still unconscious.

He was only three steps down the hallway when Cameron and the others stopped him.

"Dr. House. It's Kevin. The fever's up again. Mild, but rising. And he's bleeding into his urine, "

He gave a short, almost imperceptible sigh, and opened his bottle of Vicodin. He removed two, and swallowed them before returning to his office. Entering the workspace, he snagged the dry-erase marker as Foreman reached for it. "Nuh-uh… Cameron, you're in charge of the marker today." As he made his way over to a chair, he tossed the marker to Cameron. "Write those up there."

"The respiratory arrest could have been caused by-" Foreman began.

House interrupted him. "-Sorry, could you talk a little louder? My ears are ringing."

"-Could have been caused by-"

"-_Talk louder_."

_"-CAUSED BY FLUID AROUND THE LUNGS!"_

"Wow. You _are_ angry at me."

"Of course I'm angry. I'm trying to help save the kid, and you're just messing around with me!"

"No, see, it's hard to hide emotions. Some people do a fair job of it, but if you get them to yell, it usually breaks out. You don't get mad for something so simple as an interruption. You get annoyed, and defiant, and vent behind my back, trying to find some way of discrediting me. You're past that already. Then there's also your inexplicable reaction to my checking of Kevin's lymph nodes. Now why would you react so violently to what I did, a routine test? You were fine with it two days ago. And your terrible impromptu lie… Though I will give you credit for coming up with it in record time, the delivery was awful. You were scared. You saw my hands close around his throat, and jumped to a conclusion that you wouldn't have come to so readily if you hadn't had it on your mind previously. You thought I was going to kill him."

The room was silent.

"I'm a doctor. I get paid to heal patients. If I killed someone by some medical accident, I'd need to go in front of the Board, explain it to them, and probably pay malpractice, and that's hell. If I killed someone on purpose, I'd have to go in front of a court, go to jail, and probably be killed by lethal injection. I'd say that's worse. So tell me why you think I'd do something that's illegal, immoral, and by all views, just plain bad? Besides, that thing I had to sign, to become a doctor, it said I couldn't do that. Having grown up learning not to make things die, I think it would take a lot more that a kid with psychosis and an illegal weapon to change my mind."

Cameron gave a meaningful stare at Foreman, who chose to ignore it. He instead, looked away. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah." He paused for a minute, and looked up. "So, what about Kevin? You people came here for a reason, right? Cameron, write that down. Pleural edema, and blood in urine. What's he have?"

"Um… The blood in his urine could be caused by an internal infection. It would explain the fever and the other symptoms. If he had temporal swelling or maybe edema, it could cause the psychosis."

"The problem is that 'infection' applies to a lot of things."

"Maybe it's a tumor then?" Cameron continued.

Chase looked up, struck by sudden inspiration. "About the bloody urine. What if it's glomerulonephritis?"

"Inflammation of the glomeruli in the kidney. Rare. I like it.Makes sense to me.It can alsobe triggeredbyan infectionlike Cameron said earlier. It would explainalmost some tests for strepand the other usual upper-respiratorybacteria, and get a liver biopsy."

The other doctors stood, and prepared to leave.

"Foreman."

He gave a furtive glance at the door, where Chase and Cameron were leaving the room, before walking over to where House stood.

"Check his O² SATs and find out how soon he can be extubated. I need to talk with Kevin."

Foreman stood there for a moment. "Wait. You're not going to yell at me?"

"Not unless you want me to. I figure you'll have enough of the guilt and self-doubt, later. You made a mistake. Good for you that you cared enough to act on it. You _were_ wrong though. Stop punishing yourself, and go check on the kid."

* * *

_**Chapter ten! OMH, my little story is ten chapters old! Yay! I feel so happy! My muse is treating me to dinner tonight. (**Too bad it's muse-sized portions**) I'll be posting another chapter soon, too! Thanks to all who take the time out to read my little story, and especially those who review! It makes me so happy to read all of your comments! Read on!**_

_**P'Bantonox**_


	11. Truth?

**_Disclaimer- Disclaimer, disclaimer... Everybody covers themself with a disclaimer to make sure they aren't sued. So do I. So sue me. _**

**_Heheheh... Are you ready?_**

**_-----------------------_**

-Chapter Eleven-

Truth?

House drummed his fingers on the wall of the elevator, waiting for the ding that would signify ground floor. It was over. He was going home, to a beer and pizza. No, he reminded himself, lasagna. Wilson promised him. A beer and lasagna. He sighed. Whatever he had, he needed a beer. It had been a strange day.

The elevator doors slid open, and he stepped out, balancing himself with his crutches. Thank goodness the lobby elevator had been fixed. Making his way through the crowded room, he spied Wilson, headed the same way as he was. "Hey."

"Hey yourself. Figure out what the boy has yet?"

"Think so. You leaving, too?"

"Uh-huh. Latest patient is recovering remarkably from surgery."

"You're saying that you finally get to leave at a reasonable time. So, you're making dinner, right?"

"What? I always-- Oh. Yeah, of course."

House grinned. "Race you home?"

"With you in your Camero? No thanks. Besides, I actually prefer to drive around the speed limit, as crazy as that might seem."

"No, I understand perfectly…" House replied. "_Chicken_."

-------------------------------

House leaned back in his chair and took another bite. The lasagna was good, he couldn't deny it. But he was anxious. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he would talk to Kevin, find out exactly what happened, and why. He would--

"So, about Kevin Zalinski…" Wilson interrupted him.

"Huh?"

"What's he got? Come on, don't keep me in the dark."

"You're always in the dark." House muttered, sitting up in his chair.

"Cameron told me he was in respiratory distress for an indefinite length of time, and then, once intubated, had a seizure."

"Well, there you go."

"House, could you please--"

"Okay. O² SATs are steady, he'll be okay to extubate tomorrow. He's also peeing blood, which has been determined as a sign of glomerulonephritis. He probably got it from a bad strep infection that spread to the rest of his body. If he was malnutritioned and mistreated at his foster home, there are plenty of ways for this to have happened. All of his previous symptoms point to it, too."

"So you _are_ going to talk."

"No, I _just did_. I'm not going to anymore. I need to sleep."

"I'm confused, since when have you ever slept?"

"Ha, ha. Very funny." House held up his forkful of food. "This is good, by the way."

"Glad you like it."

"Me too. The last one I had tasted like crap."

"Hey!"

"It wasn't yours. I made it."

"You're not _that_ bad of a cook."

House raised his eyebrows.

"Okay, so you are pretty bad at it, but it's nothing that can't be fixed." He received another look, and decided it would be better to stop while he was ahead. "Why _do_ you want to talk with him? Going to ask him why he shot at you, or just torment him? You do realize that you won't get a straight answer."

House finished his plate, and stood up. "Of course. 'Night." He grabbed his crutches, and limped into his room, leaving a confused Wilson behind.

------------------------------------------------

_He was falling, hurtling towards the ground, awning left behind him. He'd misjudged the jump. It was over. He was going to hit. House tensed up, every muscle in his body braced for the impact. He flung his cane away from him… and blinked. He had crutches now, not the cane! An element was missing. Therefore, this wasn't real._

_He hit the ground, his leg buckling under him--_

--And woke up in his bed. Dammit. Not another nightmare! He hadn't had them since med school. So why was he having them again? One yesterday, one today… No doubt trauma from the previous day, or something of the like.

He rubbed sleep from his eyes, and grabbed his Vicodin, taking two of them.

Today was the day he would talk to Kevin.

---------------------------------------------------------

House dropped his bag beneath his desk, and sat back, waiting for the other three doctors to arrive. One word from one doctor, a short trip down the hallway, and the final pieces of the mystery would fall into place. Kevin would have to tell him everything. If not, well… He'd think about that later. He was pretty sure though, that the boy would talk.

"Doctor House."

His head snapped up, eyes meeting those of Cameron. Several moments passed in silence. "Yes? Do you have something important to say, or would you rather stare? Not that a staring contest wouldn't be welcome, but I have to warn you, I'm good. I can practically go all day without blinking."

Cameron blinked, surprised at his remark.

"_Ha! I won!" _

"Kevin's blood tests came back. He _did _have streptococcus-induced glomerulonephritis," she said.

"And the treatment?"

" It's working."

"Great." House stood, grabbing onto his desk for support as he reached for his crutches. "And is he extubated?"

"Not yet. But he can be, anytime now."

"I'll take care of it." House began to leave the room, propelled onward by his crutches.

"Um..."

House turned.

"Be careful."

"I intend to be."

------------------------------------------------

House limped down the hallway, nearing the door to the room where Kevin Zalinski lay. Speculation was useless when you could get better results from actually investigating. Still, visiting patients _was _a pain…

He stood outside the door for a moment, glancing at the security officer stationed outside, then tugged it open, sliding it until it reached the end of the track and hit the wall. Kevin flinched.

"Good, you're awake." He started to enter the room, then paused as the security guard began to follow him inside. House slid the door shut in his face. "Sorry, we're closed. Come back in fifteen minutes." He then pulled a coin from his pocket and dropped it in the sliding door track. "Nifty trick," he muttered, half to himself, half to Kevin.

"Hey!" The security guard knocked on the glass door. "You can't do that!"

"And you can't come in. Promise you won't interrupt us?"

The man glared at him.

"Okay, then." House pulled the blinds shut, and limped over to the side of Kevin's bed. "Remember me?"

Kevin's eyes widened, and he choked on the tube that fed him oxygen. He began to panic, as he fought for air that the machine wouldn't give.

"Stop that." House began to undo the straps holding the tube in place. "On your next breath, cough."

The boy complied, his breath aiding the tube's removal, as House pulled it steadily out. He gasped and sputtered a few moments, then was silent, staring up with wide eyes.

"There are a lot of questions I want to ask to ask you. The most pressing issue, though, is why. Why would you want to shoot a doctor who was trying to save your life?"

A minute of silence passed, the tension in the air palpable. "S-s-sorry…" The boy looked away. "But--"

"But _what?_ Are you going to tell me you had some _rationalization_ for what you were trying to do? Because I'd _love_ to hear this!" House dropped his crutches on the floor, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "I shot him because he was a jerk. Because he wasn't the cute immunologist I wanted to see. Because it's my birthday today and he didn't give me a present. Because killing is fun. Because he looked like my ex. It doesn't matter _what_ you say, _nothing_ will make me believe you in the slightest. Shooting someone means you need to have a gun. _It's nothing other than premeditated murder!_"

"I-I was trying to kill m-m-myself."

House looked sharply at him. "_Riiight_. The proper way to commit suicide is to point the gun at yourself, not someone else. You might yet have a chance of getting a room upstairs in the psych ward. The rooms up there are padded. Much more comfy than a prison cell."

"I was scared! I d-didn't expect to see you! I l-l-locked the door so I wouldn't be int-interrupted…. I shot by accident… I don't know how, it just h-happened."

"Not possible. The first shot, maybe, but the second one? You looked straight at me, then lifted the gun. You knew what you were doing."

"I… t-tried again… A-and f-f-failed."

House examined the boy's face, searching for signs that he was lying, and instead, found his eyes returning to the bloody bandage on the side of the boy's face. Wordlessly, he picked up his crutches, and limped over to the door, pausing only to remove the coin from the track. He pulled open the blinds and opened the door, slipping past the security guard. He knew what to do now.

----------------------------------

**_Yeah, I know, I know. I haven't been updating a lot lately. Well, that's because I've been trying to figure out how to wrap a story up without sounding contrived. I mean, I don't want to stop writing, but the story's played itself pretty much out. Which story am I talking about? Come now, would I really tell you? _**

**_Oh, yeah, next update is for Will Be! And boy do I have a surprise for you guys!_**

**_-P'Bantonox_**

* * *


	12. Dare

-Chapter Twelve-

Dare

The room was locked, police tape stretched across the broken window. House stood a moment, scanning his surroundings. When he was sure that no-one was looking, he pulled a paperclip from his pocket, and unbent it, sticking the end into the lock. It took him only moments to pick the mechanism. Satisfied with his work, he gave a tug at the sliding door, his brow furrowed as it glided smoothly to the end of the track. He looked back into the hallway for a moment, and stepped forwards into room D107.

At first glance, the room seemed relatively normal, minus the broken window. House paced the room on his crutches, searching the walls and floor for signs, clues to the struggle that had taken place a few days earlier. He retraced his steps, from the side of Kevin's bed to the window. Standing there, he replayed the scene over in his head.

_He was standing on the left side of Kevin's bed when the first shot was fired. Kevin was still in his hospital bed. _Which meant he would have been unsteady at the moment of the first shot, not to mention that he had been tangled up in the various wires attached to him. _House took a step backwards at the loud report, then stepped forwards, swinging his cane in a rapid arc onto the boy's wrist. _Kevin should have dropped the gun when the cane hit his wrist. The angle was right, he had swung it hard. He could have conceivably broken the boy's wrist. But Kevin had jerked away, shifted, almost as if he had anticipated the motion. At that moment, had anything been different about his attitude? House searched his memory, focusing on the boy's body language. _Kevin flinched at the sudden movement, there had been fear in his eyes. His mouth was drawn out to a thin line, and he threw himself backwards to escape the blow. In a quick moment, he was back on his feet. _But the second shot… House hadn't seen the second shot. He'd been looking for a way of escape. A gun was pointed at him, and in that situation, it was either escape or acquiescence. Since what he believed the boy had wanted was his death, the second option was out. The boy had, though, been more occupied with the gun than him… By the upwards trend of the injury on the boy's face. It meant that if Kevin _had_ tried to kill himself, the bullet would be…

House looked to the ceiling, finding what he was looking for almost immediately. The second bullet hole. It was nowhere near where he had stood, and most probably behind where Kevin had been standing. _Kevin hadn't shot at him._

House hurried out of the room, his crutches more of a hindrance than ever before. He growled, and quickened his pace. _Kevin. _Why hadn't he thought of this before?

------------------------------------------------------

House slid open the door to room P187, rushing to the side of Kevin's bed. "You said you tried to kill yourself, right?"

Kevin gave a small nod of his head, trying to shy away.

"This is gonna hurt." House grabbed the edge of the bandage on the boy's face, and with one tug, ripped off of his face.

Kevin winced and gritted his teeth, but didn't make a sound.

The area around the newly scarring tissue was red and enflamed. House leaned closer, his eyes on not the wound, but the area around it. The skin was shiny and peppered with small red flecks no larger than grains of salt.

"When you said that you tried to shoot yourself, I forgot to look for one crucial thing. A gun that close to your face would not only leave a bullet wound, but the actual firing would leave flash burns. You're not lying."

Kevin sunk back into his pillow. "Y-you believe me?"

House ignored him and continued. "One thing bothers me. Suicide is easy in a hospital. Overdose on drugs, equipment malfunction, electrical shock… Why go through the trouble of smuggling a gun in? Either someone brought it in for you, or you've planned this from the beginning. Since you were unconscious from blood loss when you were admitted, it's unlikely that you would be able to plan your suicide." House leaned his crutches against the wall, and sat down at the foot of the hospital bed.

"I stole it."

"Oh, come _off_ it. Whoever it was that had it would have either noticed you taking it, or noticed that it was gone."

"My f-foster father--"

"_Quit it _with the stuttering. It's annoying. You're fine, you're alive, I'm not going to hurt you. At least I don't intend to as of right now. If you have anything to be stuttering about, put it aside and just talk. You'll find things to be much easier to say if you aren't _agonizing_ over what happens next." House leaned backwards against the footboard, and glanced up at Kevin. "Take a minute and talk when you're ready. I want to be able to understand what you say." He drummed his fingers on the edge of the bed, waiting. Finally…

"The family I live with now is from Texas. They brought me with, on vacation…--"

The boy spoke on, about his family, and House followed along in his head. One by one, things began to fit into place. Kevin rambled on, explaining everything he could, the words pouring out of him, and House listened in silence…

_**----------------------------------------------------------------------**_

Half an hour after Gregory House had entered room P187, a common, though significant occurrence happened. Simultaneously, in three different areas of the hospital, three pagers began to emit their respective tones.

**-Drs Cameron, Foreman, Chase to ICU room P187. **

**STAT.**

**----------------------------------------------------------------------**


	13. Confrontation

- Chapter Thirteen –

Confrontation

* * *

He kept himself as polite as possible. '_I'm going to need your cooperation,'_ he'd said. And he'd gotten it. He knew she knew he knew. Confusing – but it was why Cuddy had agreed. Not that she _knew_ knew. No. Just that she knew he'd never just… ask. Important, yes. Mysterious…

No, not mysterious. The lawyers would love this. He'd done everything he was supposed to. Just as he'd promised. Made all the calls himself. Of course, he'd never've let the team do it, but hey. Rationalizations were a dime a dozen today. Especially with the parents expected any minute.

House leaned forwards in his chair and whined quietly. He cast a glance to the side and saw Foreman in the doorway, keeping an eye out. "Give a shout when you see them," he muttered. "I'll need the time."

He searched his pockets for a pen and had trouble finding one. One on the side table. It was just far enough to make him strain to reach it, lifting himself half out of the chair on his bad leg. As soon as he'd trapped it between his fingertips, he dropped back down.

The pen dropped, skittered away across the room. He swore.

"What?"

"It's nothing." He frowned. "…Dropped my pen."

Foreman shook his head, taking a few steps to where he picked it up.

House lifted his arm, hand outstretched. And hesitated. He noticed the slight tremor in his fingertips and turned the hand over, snatching the pen away. "Thanks."

The message he wrote was short, and not nearly as fun as folding it into a paper airplane. It wasn't a bad one, considering the grace with which it landed. The woman who unfolded it didn't look out of place in the corner, nor did she make any sort of response to what he'd wrote. They'd talked before. Nothing to say. Not right now.

"House. End of the hallway."

He pursed his lips. "Great. Oh, and now'd probably not be the best time to go all noble on me. Follow my lead." An empty silence. "It's what I pay you for, isn't it? Now go stand by the door. Welcome them in. And look somber."

House sat there, rehearsing his lines in his head.

To hell with the lines.

"Sorry to call you here like this."

"What's going on?" The father. Tall, middle-aged. Looked nothing like his mental image of him – more like the kind of man who'd feel at home in an office setting.

"Your son is dead. Nurses found him this morning. Gunshot to the head."

"My god." The mother. She was peering past him, her eyes half-glazed. He wondered if she was staring at the pale hand peeking out from beneath the blanket. She looked to be all nerves, glancing between him and her husband.

"Got anything you want to tell me? Something that might be missing from the family history?" He narrowed his eyes, leaning closer. "You did this to him. And I want to know why."

"What are you talking about?" The man wheeled on him. "He's our son! Why the hell –"

"It's obvious you can't play the 'love' card. Those bruises, broken bones. Not from biking – at least, not unless he was playing as a ramp. Makes perfect sense. An abused son, brought to a hospital, threatens to snitch, and you shut him up to keep your secret."

"You're wrong! I'd never kill him!"

House stared at the father, raised an accusing eyebrow. "Interesting choice of words. Not denying the abuse, then?" The man opened his mouth, but he cut him off. "Too late." He watched the body language between the two shift, the air in the room growing thinner. "No worries, she didn't kill him either." With the end of a crutch, he lifted the corner of the blanket. "Oops."

He let them take in the face that was definitely not Kevin. Not enough hair. Too many wrinkles.

He'd expected the swing. He'd also misjudged the man's speed. Sagging against the side of the bed, crutches lying abandoned on the floor, he levered himself into a sitting position and motioned to Foreman. Good man. Already holding the man back. House reached into his pocket and flipped open his phone. "Chase," he muttered. "Need the files, et cetera, et cetera. Call Cuddy and get security down here." Slipping it back into his pocket, he ran a hand over his aching jaw. "Okay. Enough pretending. Tell me your real names."

"Arianne and Andrew Zalinski." The woman was hovering at her husband's side, not sure if she should try and remove Foreman.

"Karen and Michael Westman, you mean. Says so on the firearms license. A license from Vermont, oddly enough. And your adopted son – I mean, _foster child,_ is a little far away from home. You do know you're not supposed to remove them from their state of residence, right?" Silence. "Come on. I want answers. Is what I've said true?"

Karen Westman nodded ever so slightly.

"Thought so. Any parents would have come running when their son showed up in the newspaper with his name and the word 'gun' in the same sentence. You wouldn't. It'd be the end of your story. Want to explain things, or do I have to play twenty-questions?"

"He was sick."

The door slid open. "Police are on their way."

House glanced at Cuddy. "Shut up." He turned to the woman. "Go on." A moment's awkward silence was more than enough to spoil his mood. He scowled at Cuddy once more and then turned back to Karen Westman. "It's going to happen," he said quietly. "People _are_ going to find out. The more you say now, the less _dirt_ they'll have on you."

"You have to believe me when I tell you I loved him. I always wanted a boy, but… my job. There was never any time." Every word spoken, he filed away. A screwed up family, a screwed up life. He was only half-listening to the woman's rationales, the rest of his attention spent unravelling the puzzle inside his head. There were still answers he needed.

"…the recession… I lost my job. Mike only kept his by moving to the new firm. And then the next. And then out of state. Suddenly it wasn't just the job. It was keeping Kevin safe too."

"Safe as in from the police?" Cuddy again.

" We needed the money! Even with the job and the care money we could only –"

House cleared his throat. "I get it. It's a rough world out there. You thought you could make it work. What about the gun?"

"In case they found us."

He turned to face the only person who hadn't spoken yet. The father. The man had anger written across his face, betrayal pouring from the stare he gave his wife. House clapped his hands once, twice. It was as loud as a shot in the small room. He knew everybody in the room had flinched. And in that brief second of surprise, he'd gotten a good look at Michael Westman, seen how he'd almost dropped his thin-lipped anger for shock and guilt.

He slipped off the edge of the hospital bed, bracing himself on the safety rail with one hand. Just enough to take the weight off his bad leg. He'd meant to keep his voice steady.

"So why'd you knock him around? Besides being a morally corrupt bastard, I mean." His lips curled back in a snarl. "Can you give me _one_ good reason? _Any reason?_" He looked the man in the eyes, and saw a spark of anger reflected back at him. He pushed on. "I'm sure it's just the usual stuff. Rationalizations. '_He looked at me funny.' 'He wasn't a good boy.' 'He needs to learn.'_ If you had _any goddamn clue_ – "

He broke off midsentence, his own voice ringing in his ears. Security had arrived, gathered outside the room like a black wall. Every eye in the room was on him. And he realized where he'd been going and flushed. He dropped his eyes, a tired wave of his hands asking somebody, anybody, to pick up his crutches for him. Someone pressed them into his hand and he propped himself up, pushing past uniforms and into the hallway.

It felt about ten degrees cooler.

"House."

Wilson stood across the hall, leaning against the wood-panelling of the hallway. He raised his head as House approached.

"I heard you in there."

House half-shrugged, still buzzing with the irrational urge to hit someone. Preferably male and stupid. "I didn't say nearly enough."

"You don't need to." His friend was at his side now, keeping pace as they made their way towards the elevators. "I'm sure your legal witness heard enough."

The image of the woman in the corner came to mind, and he nodded. He remembered their conversation before the meeting, the reports and paperwork laid out on the table…

"Would you..." He took a breath, his eyes meeting those of his friend. "I can take care of the rest when I get back. I just need some time to myself."

"Of course."

He nodded his head, a wordless expression of thanks. It was obvious Wilson saw something. He knew him too well. But House knew he wouldn't ask.

The elevator chimed. He made as if to enter. And stopped. The hall felt too empty, and the memories too sharp. Too much of this anger belonged to somebody else. Someone it could never touch, who would never accept it. Some things never changed.

"Wilson."

He opened his mouth to speak, and in the space of a breath, closed it again. The question was still there, but he saw something else. The familiar concern, the wordless acceptance. Hope. And not too far beneath the surface, pity.

He turned away, crumpled everything down into a single word and left it behind in the silence.

"Thanks."

It would have to do.

* * *

_**A/N - One chapter left. Security draws to a close. I wonder how many of you gave up on me, and to be honest, I wouldn't blame you if you did. But you have my eternal thanks if you were one of those who didn't. It means a lot to me.**_

_**Well. It's been a long ride, and I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. I went back and read the whole thing from beginning to end, and boy has my writing style changed. And it seems I've taken quite a few liberties, as well as toning down the 'security breach' thread cos it didn't really contribute to the story I wanted to tell. Hopefully you didn't notice , or if you did, you were kind enough to ignore them and continue reading~**_

_**And now, to the future... With **__**Security **__**out of the way, I'll continue to work on **__**Will Be**__** and **__**Flip Side**__**, but most of my attention's gonna be focussed on a story I started way before any of the others – an old Doctor Who fic that turned into a full-length novel! I'll be posting that when it's finished, along with a Lie To Me/Doctor Who crossover that I've just begun work on this week.**_

_**The final chapter of **__**Security**__** will be up next week.**_

_**New computer, new college, new start.**_

_**-P'Bantonox**_


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